History repeating itself
by Stormcircle
Summary: Sally Jackson remembers. One shot.


**History repeating itself**

_Sally Jackson remembers. One shot_

The LP record lay in its cover, which was worn and had been mended with tape in several places. Tape of the kind that grew yellow with the years and then came off. There was this round, white circle of partly peeled off colour on the cover, created by the constant chafing of record covers against each other and of taking out and putting back the vinyl record. The background was blue, the four gentlemen wore their trademark gray pin striped suits and the black hats which had given the band its name. THE FEDORAS. Written in a chubby 70ies orange font on top of the record. Jim Jackson was the second one from the left, a dark haired and timid looking man who gazed shortsighted into his camera while holding on to his acoustic guitar. Today people would probably have pegged him for a geek, and the photo was anything but flattering. But it was the only reasonable one I had of my father.

He and his colleague friends Ted, Bill and Ross never did became engineers, they had formed their band which had a brief period of success in the mid 70ies and just after the plane crash in 1977, where every one of them died. As did my mother Laura who also was on that plane, since she was one of the background singers, and this was one of the Fedoras' umpteenth tours. Their very last tour as it turned out. Yes, their plane went down on the 16 of August, 1977, the very same day as Elvis died. Guess which death made the news? Of course a bland group of young, clean cut men, long before the boy band trend, never made it big and they never really made an impact in the history of popular music.

Thus I was delighted when I had found this LP in a used record store. Now I put it in my book shelf together with the photo of that other man who had also disappeared out of my life. Poseidon, back when I still knew him as Simon with his surf board, sun tanned abs, too long sun-bleached fringe and tilted smile. Taking a step back, I adjusted Poseidon's photo slightly, careful to not put a fingerprint on the glass. Damn it, what I really wanted to do was putting a mouth print there, kiss those lips the way they begged to be kissed. But wasn't I a little grown up for such a behaviour?

As if it wasn't enough for me to scold myself, I felt the baby kick. Putting my hand on the belly I swallowed.  
"They say history repeats itself," I said slowly. "And in your case it will, sweetheart. Just as I never really knew my absent father so will you never know yours. He's gone now, gone like Jim Jackson, the sea claimed him back. The big boys meant business and the days in the sun and among the surf came to an end. And little did I know, I was pregnant. Or else... Or else..."

Then I reminded myself that there was no 'or else' in this case. For what time in order I don't know. However, I couldn't in any reasonable way demand of Poseidon to stay with little me. Taking hold of the photo again I slid down on the floor, gazing into those green eyes once more, green and sometimes blue, sometimes even gray, changeable as the sea. That smile, that fringe. Don't know how many times I brushed away those strands of hair to better see his beautiful eyes. Don't know how many time I kissed those full lips and tasted his smile. Don't know how many times I felt his warmth and that salty smell of him.

"Damn you!"

Don't know how many times I tried to count the freckles upon his nose or laughed at one of his corny jokes. Don't know how many times we played chase among the surfs and how it always ended up with him grabbing me and dipping me under and how we laughed like crazy about getting all soaked.

"But you did care? A little? Didn't you?"

Don't know how many times I nagged at him to be careful while diving from those rocks. After all just the year before a guy died there! Or to try to talk him into using the seat belt in the car or to tell a bit more about his family than having a bossy brother who lived at Manhattan.

"How could I know?"

Don't know how many times I felt my heart melt as he called me his mermaid or his queen or felt my body heat up like global warming when he touched me in all those special places. Or when he kissed me where no one else had ever dared to kiss me before. He was so suave, and still so young – or so I thought.

"And I still don't know what it sounds like when wales fart."

It's odd, our month together has just become a blur of happy bliss. One wonderful day followed by the next. However I recall how we met. It was the second day on mine and Amanda's holiday, and we were in that after beach longue drinking margaritas, when he and his pal Victor came up us. It surprised me that he, the cutest of the two, was the one who wanted to talk to me, while Victor had to entertain Amanda best he could. It was usually the other way around, blond and busty Amanda getting all the attention from the hunks while poor Sally had to be content with 'the other guy's.

I remember his self-assured smile as he uninvited slid down in the sofa next to me, his first words to me, as if they were uttered yesterday.  
"Hi there, I've never seen this wonderful hair around before!"

I had giggled, lost for word. Imagine Sally Jackson – lost for words. That was a first one in history I assume. And he had hold out a tanned hand:

"Simon Skipper," his accent slightly British. I had introduced myself and we had played that usual game of introduction, but soon ended up in a conversation which made me feel that I've known this cute guy forever. A conversation which had lasted long into the night, interrupted by some dancing when the orchestra had come on stage and began playing those worn out oldies which every orchestra in every place like this do. And could this man dance! With those steps, with that smile and with those witty comments he had enthralled me already the first evening. Yes, I would always remember our first evening.

Just as well do I remember that last evening. When he had driven me home after a dinner at The Pier and stopped outside mine and Amanda's rented bungalow. How he had lifted the hands from the wheel, and faced me, saying:  
"Sally, we need to talk. There is something I have to tell you. About me. About us."

That was when my world had shattered.

I hardly remember what he really said or how he said it other than being Poseidon, one of the ancient gods. How I had thought he was kidding me first, thought he was crazy later, and then, when he finally had proved himself, how I broke down and cried. He had tried to comfort me back then, and I had rushed out of the car and when he followed me I had called him the meanest of things. Words I didn't mean, and I am so glad he was empathic enough to understand that. To stay while I told him to go Eff himself, hit his chest with balled fists and tore off that pearl necklace he had given me, so the pearls flew all over the asphalt. He had just picked the pearls up and mended the necklace, and when I told I didn't want it, he had kept it, only to mail it to me later.

He had been so understanding, so compassionate, and I didn't even get the chance to say 'I'm sorry' for being such an asshole on the last night I saw him.

I will probably never see him again, however I will try to not remember that last night.

Instead I will remember him when he sang Michael Jackson's 'Man in the mirror' at that karaoke bar, and made my heart melt. Or when we watched Jaws and he pointed out all those errors in that movie. Or when the car broke down and he was so totally lost, and then so delighted when yours truly managed to fix it. Or the way he always bit a hole in the bottom of the ice cream cone and tricked out some of the molten ice that way. Or just how we spooned up in the night, and how he tickled me awake in the mornings. Those little crazy wonderful things.

My neighbor is playing Eminem again. Loud. I almost feel like putting on THE FEDORAS and crank up the volume so the walls begin to reverberate. Simon, eh Poseidon would probably have done such a thing. He never liked rap. And he never took shit. Oh, why do I remember him in past tense? It doesn't make sense!

And still it does, because I doubt we'll ever meet again. And if we do, it still won't be the same, since I now know who he is. He's not Simon Skipper 32 years old, but Poseidon, god of the sea 3200 years old. And it will never be the same.

Still I have my memories. I have the photo. I have my pearl necklace.

And I have my wildly kicking baby.


End file.
